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When they finally reach Kaer Morhen, Ciri is so cold and tired that she barely manages to stay on her feet long enough to get to a bedroom. She falls into the bed facefirst, fully clothed, and the last thing she feels before she passes out is the gentle tug of someone’s hands removing her sodden, filthy boots.
She wakes sometime in the middle of the night. Someone has taken off her coat and socks, tucked her under heavy fur blankets, and drawn the curtains tight around the bed. She’s quite warm, which is a marvelous change from the entire trip up this godsforsaken mountain. She’s never been so cold before in her life, and that was with Geralt holding her close, his cloak wrapped around both of them, his hat tucked down over her ears and his gloves swallowing her hands.
She feels very guilty about having taken all of his cold-weather gear, but as he pointed out, he can bear the cold better than she can. If she hadn’t had the hat and gloves, she would probably have lost some fingers to frostbite, and possibly also her ears.
She has no idea how long she’s been asleep; it was still light when they reached Kaer Morhen, no later than midafternoon by her best estimate, and when she parts the curtains it is very dark in the unfamiliar room. She probably should cocoon herself in the blankets again and go back to sleep, but now that she’s awake, her stomach is reminding her very emphatically that she hasn’t eaten more than a bit of overcooked rabbit in the last day or so. She’s not starving, precisely, but she is very, very hungry.
She slips out of the bed, grateful for the thick fur rug on the floor, and pads across the room in what she thinks is the direction of the door, hands held out in front of her. She can’t see anything; there is no lit candle or covered lantern, and if there’s a window, the shutters must be drawn tight. The blackness is as pure as she has ever imagined darkness to be. The air of the room is crisp, but not too cold to bear.
Her outstretched hands strike wood instead of stone, and she feels carefully around until she finds a wrought-iron handle, and tugs at the door, stepping backwards so she won’t bash it into her own toes. The door’s hinges creak a little as she opens it, like it hasn’t been used in a very long time, and she peers out into what she thinks is probably a hallway.
There is a lantern here: a wall sconce a ways down the corridor, with a candle in it that has burned so low that it casts barely any light at all, just a few flickering patches that to Ciri’s eyes look almost like the wings of a bird against the wall. The light doesn’t illuminate much more than the sconce itself and the tiny patch of wall where it hangs; Ciri peers up and down the hallway, catching sight of another sconce far enough away that it’s barely a smear of light in the all-encompassing darkness.
It feels like something out of a nightmare, this dark cold quiet hall with its tiny patches of faint light. Ciri shudders, and it isn’t from the cold. This seems like exactly the sort of place there ought to be ghosts, or giant spiders, or something lurking in the corners, ready to snatch her up and devour her.
She shakes herself vigorously. It’s a keep full of witchers. Of course there won’t be any monsters here. It’s safe, surely. Geralt wouldn’t have brought her here if it wasn’t safe. The only risk here is freezing her poor feet off on the cold stone floors, or keeling over from hunger before dawn.
She has no idea which way the kitchen might be. If she were a witcher, she could probably smell it, but she is only human and all she can smell is cold stone and dust.
She glances around again, and recoils, thumping back against the door with a gasp of terror. There are eyes in the darkness, catching the scant light of the wall sconce and gleaming yellow.
“Sorry,” says a rough male voice, deeper than Geralt’s, and the eyes move closer; against the dim glow of the sconce she can see the loom of broad shoulders, a human head. “Didn’t mean to startle you, lass.”
Ciri presses a hand to her chest and tries to calm her pounding heart. Not a monster, not a wolf - a witcher. She knows about their eyes; she has seen Geralt’s gleaming in the light of their little campfires. She just wasn’t expecting to encounter one at this precise moment.
“It’s alright,” she says, taking refuge in courtesy. “You must be one of Geralt’s brothers?” He’s mentioned them - not much, but their names, at least.
“Eskel,” the witcher says, which is one of the names Geralt mentioned. “You’re up late.”
“I woke up, and -” Ciri’s stomach growls. Eskel chuckles, a soft rough noise.
“I see,” he says. “Well. Shall we go raid the kitchen?” His glowing eyes glance downwards, and narrow. “Wait there.”
Ciri blinks as he turns and vanishes into the darkness. Wait here for what? For how long?
There’s a soft creak of well-oiled hinges from somewhere down the hall, and then Eskel returns, moving silently over the stone floor, his eyes gleaming as he approaches. “Here,” he says, and Ciri thinks he might be holding something out. She reaches forward, groping in the dimness, and he presses two soft, shapeless things into her hands. She explores them with tentative fingers - sheepskin, she thinks, tanned on the outside and wooly within -
Boots. Warm soft-soled boots, meant for cold hallways rather than tromping about in the forest. Ciri sits down on the floor to pull them on, sighing in relief as her cold toes are surrounded by soft warmth. The boots are quite a bit too large, but she doesn’t want to complain.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Eskel says, sounding pleased. “Don’t want you freezing your toes off. Here, the kitchen’s this way.”
He heads off down the hallway. Ciri swallows. “I - I can’t see,” she admits.
“You can’t - oh, damn.” There’s a soft sound like Eskel has slapped himself on the forehead. “Of course you can’t. I’m sorry.” And then, without any sound at all, there’s a flare of light, so brilliant it’s almost blinding. Ciri recoils, hand over her eyes, and peers through her fingers to see Eskel is holding a little flame in the palm of his hand. It throws flickering shadows over the stark stone walls, the iron-bound doors, and Eskel himself.
Ciri swallows an undignified sound of fear. Eskel is a big man, broader in the shoulder than Geralt, and his face in the light of his little flame is a thing out of nightmares, his cheek carved with scars that make him look as monstrous as any of the things he hunts. Here in the dark of the midnight keep, eyes gleaming like a predator’s, he is utterly terrifying.
But he hasn’t done anything but bring Ciri boots and offer to show her to the kitchens. And she is Calanthe’s granddaughter, the Lion Cub of Cintra. She isn’t going to be scared off by scars.
She squares her shoulders, letting her hand fall as her eyes adjust to the light, and pads carefully down the hall to join him, walking gingerly in the too-big boots. “How are you doing that?”
“Igni,” Eskel says. “Did Geralt not use it to light campfires?” He turns once she joins him and leads the way down the hall, fire flickering tamely in his hand.
“Yes, but he couldn’t make it do that.” He just flicked his hand to make the damp wood light.
Eskel chuckles. “I’m good at Signs.” He gestures ahead of them. “Careful on the stairs.”
Ciri grasps the rail along the side of the staircase, not wanting to plummet headfirst down the stone steps, and follows Eskel down. At the bottom of the stairs he turns right, and leads her down another hallway, this one shorter, to a heavy-looking door. He hauls it open one-handed, without any apparent effort, Igni still burning obediently in his other hand.
The room he ushers her into has a big banked fireplace at one end, the coals glowing sullenly. Eskel flicks his fingers, sending the flame leaping from his hand to the coals, and they brighten, casting a dim light over the large room. It is, in fact, a kitchen, with a table near the hearth and long counters along the walls, pots and pans hanging from hooks in the rafters, knives and ladles and other long-handled implements on smaller hooks on the walls. There’s a pot over the fireplace with a lid on it. Eskel opens a cupboard and produces a pair of bowls, then takes a thick cloth from the back of a chair and lifts the pot’s lid, releasing a savory rich smell that makes Ciri’s stomach growl again.
“Vesemir always has something on the back of the fire,” Eskel says. “You can help yourself anytime.” He fills both bowls and puts the lid back on the pot. “Come and sit, lass.”
Ciri settles into one of the chairs at the table, noticing as she pulls it out that the legs and back are intricately carved - not something she expected to find in a witcher keep. Eskel puts a bowl in front of her, then rummages about for a moment and drops a spoon beside it. The spoon, too, is beautifully made, its handle an elegant twist of polished wood, its bowl as smooth as silk. He disappears for a moment into an unlit room off to one side, apparently not inconvenienced by the lack of any light but the fire, and emerges to plunk down two mugs of what smells like small beer.
“Eat up,” Eskel says, sitting down across from her. Evidently witchers do not stand on ceremony. Ciri takes a spoonful of stew and blows on it, then sips tentatively.
It’s good.
“Oh,” she breathes, and takes a too-large mouthful, burning her tongue and not caring at all. Eskel chuckles again.
“Ah, poor lass, you’ve been eating Geralt’s cooking,” he says. “I love our Wolf dearly, but he does not have a gift for it, does he?”
Ciri swallows her mouthful and gives Eskel a rueful smile. “Lots of charred rabbit,” she admits. “But he tried to make sure I got some cabbage and turnips whenever he could buy or steal them.”
Eskel nods. “Good.”
“Can you cook?” Ciri asks.
Eskel shrugs. “Reasonably well,” he says. “I’m not to Vesemir’s level of skill, but he’s had a lot longer to practice.” He grins; the scars make the expression ugly, but Ciri thinks she can see the truth of his good humor in the crinkles around his eyes. “Just as a word of advice, never eat anything Lambert cooks, unless it’s noodles - and even then be wary. His baking is marvelous, though. Coën is actually quite an accomplished cook but he does tend to make his dishes rather too spicy for my palate.”
Ciri nods. “Thank you for the advice. And the stew.”
“My pleasure,” Eskel says, and they eat in companionable silence for a few minutes. When Ciri has drunk the last few drops of broth out of her bowl, Eskel says, “So Geralt didn’t actually tell us who you were.”
Ciri blinks. “He didn’t?”
“To be perfectly fair to him, he fell asleep about three minutes after you did - I had to carry the ridiculous bastard to bed. All he said was that you were his Child Surprise.”
“Oh.” Ciri swallows. “I’m Ciri. Cirilla.”
Eskel’s eyes narrow for a moment, and then his eyebrows climb nearly to his hairline. “Cirilla of Cintra? The Lion Cub?”
Ciri nods nervously. She doesn’t think a witcher would betray her to Nilfgaard - not if Geralt has brought her here to safety - but she’s spent the whole trip here worrying that people will discover who she is, and now Eskel has figured it out in mere moments. She must remember not to underestimate the witchers.
“Gods, what has that idiot gone and gotten himself into the middle of now?” Eskel sighs. “Well. Welcome to Kaer Morhen, Ciri. I’m glad to meet you, even if I had no idea my brother had acquired a Child Surprise, much less one so…unusual.”
“Geralt didn’t tell you about me?” Ciri asks, feeling oddly hurt.
Eskel shakes his head. “He keeps his mouth shut about a lot of things he shouldn’t.”
“Oh.” Ciri hunches her shoulders. “I don’t think he wanted me.”
Eskel sighs. “Children of Surprise are a fraught subject for witchers, I’m afraid. It’s nothing to do with you, cub. Just bad memories.” He waves a hand at the room, and possibly at the entire keep surrounding them. “Would you want to bring a child to this place if you didn’t have to?”
“It’s…a bit cold,” Ciri admits.
Eskel snorts. “Cold and stark and full of terrible memories,” he says softly. “It’s not a place for a child. Never has been, really.”
“Oh.” Ciri nods. “I guess maybe he thought I’d be better off with - with Grandmother?”
“I think generally speaking most people would rather be raised by a queen than a pack of witchers,” Eskel says dryly. “Not always, I’ll grant you.” He brushes his fingers over the scars on his cheek, looking bleakly unhappy for just a moment. “But most of the time.”
“I,” Ciri says, and swallows a lump of misery. “Grandmother loved me and she - she’s dead and they burned the city and -” Her breath hitches, and she scrubs her hands over her eyes, willing herself not to cry.
“Fuck, you’ve been through some shit, haven’t you,” Eskel murmurs, not really a question at all. “You and Geralt will have quite the tale to tell.”
Ciri nods behind her hands, sniffling and scrubbing at her cheeks as the tears spill over. There’s a soft rustle, and she peeks through her fingers to see that Eskel has pushed a napkin across the table. Ciri takes it and wipes her face.
“I’m guessing now you’ve eaten you’re about ready to sleep again,” Eskel says gently. “And gods know being overtired isn’t great for keeping your wits about you. Remind me to tell you sometime about the stupid shit Geralt has done when he’s low on sleep. A bit of crying doesn’t even rank, I promise.”
Ciri finds a giggle somewhere, and Eskel looks pleased.
“Come on, back to bed with you,” he says. “In the morning you can meet everyone else.”
“Thank you,” Ciri says, rising and following his lead as he puts his bowl and mug and spoon in a stone sink and ushers her back out of the room. He lights an Igni in his palm again and leads her slowly back up the stairs and down the corridor to the open door of the room she’s been given.
Geralt is standing in the doorway - is leaning against the doorframe, rather, looking as if it’s the only thing keeping him on his feet, and peering into the bedroom with a worried expression. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and his face drawn with weariness and long days of hunger.
“Wolf,” Eskel says quietly as they approach. Geralt slews around and his expression slides from worry into stark relief.
“Eskel,” he says. “Ciri.”
“I’m fine,” Ciri assures him. “Eskel brought me to find something to eat.”
“Oh,” Geralt says, and sways a little. Eskel sighs and rolls his eyes.
“Come on, Wolf, back to bed with you,” he chides gently. “Your cub’s fine. I’ll keep her safe.”
Geralt nods, eyelids drooping until he looks ready to fall asleep where he stands. Eskel sighs again and shakes his head.
“Go on to bed, cub,” he says gently. “I’ve got to get this great idiot to his bed before he passes out in the hall. Again.”
Ciri giggles. “Thank you for showing me the kitchen,” she says. “And for the boots.”
“You’re very welcome,” Eskel assures her. Ciri smiles up at him and slips into her bedroom, past Geralt’s swaying form - then stops, turns back, and throws her arms around his waist in a quick, tight hug.
“I’m alright, Geralt,” she says. “Eskel looked after me.”
Geralt smiles and tousles her hair gently, tugging on her messy braid. “Good,” he says. “Sleep.”
“You, too,” Ciri tells him sternly, and closes her door to the sound of Eskel laughing quietly.
“She told you, Wolf,” she hears him say. “Come on, then, you’re asleep on your feet.”
She makes her way back to bed in the perfect darkness of the bedroom, finding the edge of the bed with her knees before her hands find the drawn-back curtains, and kicks carefully out of the wonderful soft boots before she scrambles into bed and pulls the curtains shut again.
Kaer Morhen is still dark and cold, but it doesn’t feel like something out of a nightmare anymore. Ciri curls up under the heavy blankets with her stomach full of rich, warm stew, safe in the knowledge that Geralt is somewhere just down the hall, probably already fast asleep, and so is Eskel, who has promised to look after her. Who filled Kaer Morhen’s dark halls with a warm and welcome light.